Humanity
April showers
Looking in the mirror in a euphemistically way . Knowing who I am inside versus how I look on the outside . Internally the proper prima ballerina princess with the personality differing each day . Some days I’m logical and some days I’m very light hearted. Some days I want to wear a cute beanie and some doc martins . Most days I want espadrilles and the ballerina flats that tie all the way up . Some days I wear purple lipstick and rock rob zombie and want to live inside of Taylor momsens old wardrobe. That’s my different personality’s one logical dark and serious. Then goofy peppy cheerleader whose light hearted and wants to hug everyone .
By April Liao4 years ago in Confessions
You are Valuable
So many times in life we face trials or issues that causes us to re-evaluate ourselves. If you are like me where you give so much of yourself to love and help others, then you wonder does anyone care that I am drained? Where are those individuals that says, "I love you and whatever you need, I got you!"
By Pamela Teague4 years ago in Confessions
Home. Top Story - June 2022.
I've been slowly reintegrating back into reality. I landed a week ago. Stood, squinting in the California sun, puffy-eyed from 27 hours of sleepy suitcase dragging, waiting for Shane's white SUV to peel around the corner at Burbank airport. I wondered if this was the last time I'd pull something like this--stuff three bags full of clothes and books and disappear from my life for five months. With me, it's impossible to know for sure.
By Lucia Joyce4 years ago in Confessions
10 things you will regret later in life
1. Neglecting Passion photo by Ian Schneider on unsplash In ten or twenty years, when you reflect on the life you’ve lived, will you regret the career you chose? Many people experience professional regret because they spent their lives chasing dollar signs instead of pursuing their passions. They chose professions that could afford them a more luxurious lifestyle. Day in and day out, they earned a hefty salary, but as you look back at your life, you won’t think about how much money you made. You’ll think about the meaningful things you accomplished. If your professional life revolved around your paycheck, you may not have something meaningful to reflect on.
By lupu alexandra4 years ago in Confessions
So it continues
As I returned to my moms , it was a new house , new boyfriend, a new school , new place and farther from my family . There was no place to sleep so my mom got me a little folding couch the ones they made for kids to sleep on , she had me read a child called it . Her words are “ your life could be worse “ and she was right my life wasn’t as hard as that boys . Then the fighting started between my mom and this guy , fist fights , screaming hiding . I wanted my life to go back to normal . I wanted it to end . So I went to the bathroom and knew if I took a bunch of random medicine in the cabinet maybe it would end finally . Maybe the nightmares would finally stop . Maybe I wouldn’t remember his name or his smell or how his breathing tremored , the way his voice echoed in my ears when is slept . So I took snuck to the bathroom and took 20 Tylenol for the pain and half a bottle of allergy medicine. Before I knew it I was in the back of the ambulance with IVs . I remember the taste of the charcoal when they pumped my stomach . I remember my favorite uncle sitting at my bedside telling me he’s supposed to die before me , he can’t live life without me. He helped raise me . He wasn’t just my uncle he was the only father I had , the big brother who would have protected me . Those words to this day still keep me fighting , they keep me strong they sting every time I feel like life’s ending . I don’t remember the ride to the psychiatric hospital. I remember sleeping on cold floor with just a mat , some girl screaming in a straight jacket and then they gave her a shot in the arm . All I could think was what the hell is this place ? I am not like that I don’t belong here ! As the days passed I can still remember visits with my grandma , I can remember she brought me a carebear to sleep with but I wasn’t allowed to have it . I can remember the smell of my teen spurt deodorant and how everything I did was monitored . I remember counseling and going to school in the hospital with other kids . I remember calling my mom before lights out and yelling her to take me home . She would tell me it wasn’t her choice anymore . I was a danger to myself and to everyone else . I was blacking out and getting into fights with my mom so bad all I could remember was laying in her lap afterwards and having apple juice . I remember my very last therapy session in the hospital and promised not to try that again . I would have said anything just to go home . With medication that was fit for an adult that made me a zombie , I took it and went home . I didn’t know what home was . I had no clue my mom put alarms on my doors , I had no clue she got engaged or moved in with a new guy . All I knew was I was tired and had to keep my cool . So once again , a new guy , new house , new neighborhood , new school . The new school wasn’t terrible . I made friends pretty easy . But I always had to hide who I really was … or the version of me I was supposed to hide . I hardly remember my teachers I went through so many , I recall my mom telling us that we were moving AGAIN ! This time it was out of state . This time it was Virginia.
By KelseaMarie Hamilton4 years ago in Confessions
Daily Reflections
01/04/2022 Food for Thought I was never much of a scientist. In much the same manner as I am still not much of a baker. Often these two things find themselves conflated by simile in kitchens: and rightly so. While there is most definitely artistry in baking, its first principles are far more immutable than those found in other culinary disciplines. After over 30 years as a cook, I have acquired a passable knowledge of baking and a deep appreciation for its exactitude.
By Andrew Rockman4 years ago in Confessions
Do My Ideas Flutter or Fly?
Do my ideas flutter or do they fly? Do they follow me into the washroom or do they wait for me at the door? Are some slower than others at floating through the wind and try helping their friends along the way? Are they friends? Do they ever fancy one another or grow romantic? I have questions for and about my ideas, but to whom do I ask them? Surely if I stand and attempt to formulate a question for them in the shower, there'll just be more outside waiting for me than I walked in with? There's no ticket or queue to query for my ideas to stop me from making more. Surely my ideas follow me around. They must. But I desire to be confident in knowing whether they fly or flutter. Or do only some fly while others do indeed flutter? They all must be omniscient, too, they just choose not to tell me so. I do believe that. But how would I know for sure? We don't communicate, my ideas and I. I only cut and sever and sculpt and mould. Alter and adapt. Is that fair? Is that fair for my ideas? I wish for them to have autonomy, I do so, truly. I wish for them to choose to follow me where they wish. I desire for my ideas to decide whether they fly or flutter upon wings of sky or glitter. Think of what the world would be, what magnanimous, manicured, magnificence the world would materialize of if only I could communicate with my ideas. If, and only if I could just surmise whether they fly or flutter. If they choose to wait for me outside doors or do indeed follow me through. If my sweet ideas are fluffy or flat. Tell me, my children, are you flat? I grow tired of asking these questions as blatant rhetoric; I ask you directly now, are you flat? I refuse the prospect that you, my fleeting mental mannerisms, are flat. I refute it rigorously, I rebuke it righteously that you, my darlings, would give me an accurate reflection upon your surface. I wish I could ask you that if ever I were granted the chance to witness you all as you flutter or fly that you distort my face in your minimal reflection. Grant me zero retention, please. But oh, I wonder, does this impose on your autonomy? I simply wish for you to have depth, is all, as I believe you all do. I believe that, wholeheartedly, that you would incur a wondrous world of make-believe and nigh-endless possibilities upon someone if they were to do so little as to dip a pinky into your substance. But how, I beg, would I or someone else reach you? Tell me, please, relent your secrets but do not release your autonomy to grant me my answers. I harbour so many questions for you and your kind. Are you colourful and sprightly, or dim and spiteful or do you get to choose depending on your current substance? When I think thoughts and ideas of plentiful journeys and experiences to take my creations on, do you take on their respective colours and act in their appropriate ways? But if I were to think back upon the turbulent and destructive ideas I had years past, were you spiteful and dim? Did you wield mystical, incorporeal weapons and would wage war upon the sweeter of my ideas? I hope not, but sometimes it would feel like that. Oh, is that how we speak to one another, I wonder? I cannot picture powdered wigs and high, wooden chairs that designate status and import. Not nearly as vivid as I can picture my ideas fighting one another for the spot of prevalence in my metaphysical periphery. I do feel the effects of that war. Each impact affecting my psyche; temporarily snuffing the luminosity of the effortlessly deep and entrenched ideas to make way for the dim and spiteful. Now that I think about it, I believe I know how those ideas wander their world. I believe those neither flutter nor fly. Those ideas bounce along the tops of the colourful and sprightly, clipping their wings of glitter or sky, bringing them ever closer to an aura of utter forgetfulness. But how do they enter through the washroom door? I have certainly felt the effects of their war, no matter which room is beyond which door. Do they bounce atop your precious wings and use the clippings to squeeze through the gaps? I suppose I must also ask the question, that do I contribute to their dimness and spitefulness by not addressing them directly? So far I have only thought of them as they, and have been addressing you, my children of colour and of a sprightly disposition. Maybe I am an aspect in their quality and indirect quantity. Would that then make them-- I'm sorry, you, consider me an inadvertent asset in the process of snuffing the sprightly and colourful? If this is how we loosely communicate, my ideas, my children, that may or may not be fluttering and flying upon wings of glitter and sky. If we communicate by how I address your friends or maybe romantic partners and which ideas I add or detract, then I apologize, my sweets. You are all truly a part of me, and perhaps I have gone far too long ignoring, you, my dim and spiteful when all you were attempting to do was vie for my affection and attention when all I was attempting to do was the same, while ignoring you in the process. I have been trying to ignore you, rebuke you, and in fact, repent for some and remove others. When from the start I should have also wished to communicate and ask you the same questions I ask the sprightly and colourful. I believe you are just as important as the ones you hop on. So I ask you, now: my children, do you also follow me into the washroom or do you wait for me outside and watch as I create and designate more of you? Are you also slower or quicker than others as you float along with the gentle winds? Do you also help your friends when they fall behind? Are you friends? Do you ever grow romantic with one another? Are you flat, please do not tell me you have been flat all these years? I believe in my heart that even in my ignorance and denial you would also incur such wondrous worlds of make-believe and nigh-endless possibilities if someone were to ever simply dip a pinky into one of you. I must also then ask you, my dear ideas, what colours do you choose to exhume and exist as? Do you now bumble along quite as sprightly and colourfully as the rest of your companions, or do you now, perhaps, my ideas: do you flutter or fly?
By J. Arthur Collins4 years ago in Confessions
what's with exclusivity?
June 9th, 2022 Ugh. Today I’m legitimately angry. I made the mistake of attending one of the worst events in the city I live in. The worst part about it is not necessarily the event itself, but rather the attendees. With their noses pointing to the sky, all dressed in black thinking they’re oh so cool. Claiming that they're artists and truly believing that their art is meaningful. Trying to impress me and everyone around them. Disguising their bragginess when confronted about it.
By Ms. Rodwell4 years ago in Confessions
Things I cried over this week
I'm a very emotional person. I cry at sad and happy movies, books, TikToks... you name it. I will cry over any little small thing sometimes, whether it's something that's just a small inconvenience or something that is truly sad.
By Shelby Larsen4 years ago in Confessions
